


Lucky Dogs

by varjohaltija



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: "mature"rating is probably overestimation, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/pseuds/varjohaltija
Summary: Christmas morning fluff.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lucky dogs (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5567413) by [varjohaltija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/pseuds/varjohaltija). 



> Sorry this took awhile. :) But Christmas fics are always great, eh?
> 
> Thank you, lovely [TwangCat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twangcat/pseuds/twangcat) for betaing and fixing like million grammar mistakes :). Love you lots.

_*Squelch*_

The sound from the wet and gooey _something_ under Phil’s foot makes him stop dead on his tracks and wince in disgust. _Ewwww_. He should never, ever wander in the apartment in the dark without slippers.  
  


It’s just that his slippers were left, amongst rest of his clothes, somewhere on the way from downstairs sofa to the loft yesterday morning as Clint half-carried, half-pushed him back to the bedroom. Call him weak, but Phil couldn’t concentrate both on the hands all over his body, tongue in his mouth and on thinking about where each and every item of his clothing was going to end up. And afterwards… well, they both were already running late from saving the world. And when the bad guy of the day was beaten, so was Phil – he had had barely enough energy to find his way to the bedroom, change, and orientate so that his head hit the pillow instead of bedpost before he lost consciousness.  
 

So now he is groping around in the approximate direction of the light switch and finally managing to get some light. He almost doesn’t dare to look what the moist, disgusting thing stuck to his sole and squeezing in between his toes is _this time_.  
 

Fuck it. He had faced terrorists and goddamn hostile aliens (last time only few weeks ago), survived being impaled, and more remarkably, spilling hungover Maria Hill’s coffee (latter was pure luck, but survived nonetheless). He can do this. He takes a deep breath.  
 

The offending substance seems to be the sad, mushy remains of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, most likely dragged around by Lucky after he had licked it clean of all the good stuff. Much less revolting than he expected. Memories of half eaten organic (maybe?) things the dog has carried home in the past, make him shudder. He takes a random T-shirt from the table and wipes most of the gunk away, and cleans the floor with it too, before hopping to the bathroom to rinse his foot and throw the T-shirt in the overflowing laundry basket.  
 

He empties his bladder and while washing his hands, dares a quick glance at the mirror. It makes him sigh. He looks like shit. The shadows under his eyes are so dark that they look like bruises. At least age has brought the blessing of presbyopia, which saves him from seeing most of the wrinkles. But even the blurred reflection of himself seems about hundred years old and totally spent. As you should expect from someone, who has quite recently been tossed around by a giant robotic elf and unceremoniously dumped into a tank full of slightly toxic eggnog. Yet another holiday dish spoiled for life. Not to mention his suit – goddammit, he had _liked_ that one... Why, oh why couldn’t baddies just skip the festivities and try to kill and maim their fellow men in a simple way? What’s wrong with straightforward shooting and exploding – there is no prize for best executed themed killing, is there? Well, at least now he will smell like nutmeg for holidays, unlike last year when the attack of reanimated turkeys had made him reek like stuffing and caused Lucky – and slightly unsettlingly, Clint – to basically glue their noses in him and sigh happily every time they inhaled in his vicinity.  
 

He is just about to go downstairs, when Clint trudges into the bathroom in his rumpled  pyjama pants, hair tousled, obviously so sleepy he cannot see straight, and inelegantly slumps against Phil’s back, making him take support from the sink. (Not that Phil minds being draped by this heavy human blanket.)  
 

“You wer’ gon’. ‘ome back,“ Clint mumbles sleepily into the curve of Phil’s neck, moving to mouth the skin of his shoulder through his shirt and wrapping arms around Phil's waist. He squeezes tightly, almost too tight for comfort, and although his grip loosens quickly, it stays firm, like he’s afraid to let go. Phil understands. He remembers the times he has woken up alone, uncertain whether he would ever have Clint back… and how the memory of that cold terror still stabs through his heart sometimes, when Clint isn’t by his his side on the morning. He raises his hands to cover Clint’s, and pushes deeper into Clint’s chest, letting his head fall back to rest on Clint’s shoulder. All the worries and fears fade to the background as Phil revels in the solid warmth surrounding him. _Safe._ _They are both safe here and now_.  
 

Clint’s three day stubble scratches through the threadbare fabric of Phil’s favorite T-shirt – the one he stole from Clint for the first long mission apart after they started dating. He reaches to gently brush Clint’s cheek, watching from the mirror how Clint leans to the caress and feeling the content hum of his lover against his back. Phil is sorely tempted to return to the bed and cuddle with Clint for the whole morning or for all of the next week. Eternity wouldn’t be a long enough time to get his fill of Clint. But there are important things he needs to do. He taps Clint’s hand in the sequence that asks for eye contact. When Clint raises his head and meets Phil’s reflection, Phil mouths and signs:  
 

 _“I’m just putting some coffee on and walking the dog. I’ll come back right after that, love.”  
_  

“Uh-huh. ---‘romise?” Clint’s voice fades away as his forehead hits Phil’s shoulder again and Phil cannot help smiling. Clint on the mission is the most alert person you could imagine, sleeping with one eye open, waking up in no time. Maybe because of that, Clint at home and relaxed is full Captain Narcolepsy. After all this time the knowledge that he can bring this trust out of Clint makes the pleasure curl inside of him.  
 

Phil turns and wraps his arms around Clint, petting soothingly along his back and neck. He traces the shell of Clint’s ear with his lips. “Promise.” he says, hopefully loud enough for Clint to hear. He is tempted to nibble the earlobe that is under his lips, and continue from there, but then he would never get out. And his plan would be ruined. He pecks a kiss to Clint’s hair and nuzzles his hairline, breathing slowly in and out, momentarily lost in enjoying _this_ , this overwhelming peace and happiness he has found in the man now half-dozing in his arms. Clint starts to get heavy as he is relaxing to the touch and Phil is certain he is about to fall asleep right there, standing upright.  
 

“Oh no, sleepypants, off you go, back to bed, before I have to carry you.”  
 

Phil chuckles as he guides Clint in the right direction by gently smacking his ass and watches fondly as the man plods his way back to bed and falls on the mattress with a loud thud.

 

*******

Phil pads to the kitchen, watching carefully where he is treading. There actually is some coffee grounds left, and the coffee pot doesn’t need scraping clean this time so it doesn’t take too long for him to get  the coffee maker ready and preset. He is happy to see there is a big jug of milk, an unopened carton of juice, and instant pancake mix in the fridge – plenty for breakfast. They had agreed to go to the Avengers Tower for Christmas dinner and his parents were expecting them for boxing day, so there was no need for him to get to the grocery store in addition to his task.  
  


In the far corner of the fridge there is a box, with a big heart drawn on the lid. Phil smiles as he takes it out. Clint must have got something for Phil to eat after being convinced to leave medical and not wait until Phil had been decontaminated. It had proven to be a good decision, as it had taken hours to get everyone cleared and Phil finishing as much of the paperwork of the shitshow as possible so that it wouldn’t be waiting for him after holidays.  
 

Inside the box, there are cookies, shaped like donuts with purple frosting. Sweetness of the gesture makes Phil smile from ear to ear. It is so like Clint to leave something for him. His stomach rumbles. He shouldn’t… but it’s good to have some carbs before exercise, isn’t it? And Clint probably meant for him to eat them yesterday. So he takes one. It’s a bit dry and not as sweet as he expected, but not bad. Especially when he pours himself a glass of milk. Cookies are quite small, so he can take another one, right? Before he knows he has eaten nearly half of them. Ooops. He needs to run few extra rounds around the park, then.  
 

A look outside shows sleet grey sky heavy with clouds just waiting to pour down, and judging by the freezing weather they had yesterday, it will be cold today, too. If they are lucky, there might even be snow. A white Christmas would be nice. Phil pulls thermal underwear and sweatpants on top of his boxers and throws on Clint’s hoodie before putting on his jacket. A short jog in the morning is good for both Lucky and him, even if he is still feeling the strains of the previous day. He doesn’t get as much exercise in his work as Clint does and at his age keeping in shape takes more effort anyway. While Clint claims to have adored it, when Phil had some more belly fat _(“You were my soft cuddly Phil bear, I miss that”_ ), Phil is much happier without the extra padding around his waist. That was before The Battle. He was soft and sloppy and got injured. He almost got Clint killed. That cannot happen again. He needs to be on the top of his game both physically and mentally to protect the people he loves.  
 

Lucky’s leash is nowhere to be found, but he is pretty obedient and Phil is really not in the mood to look under all the knickknacks Clint has piled to the closet, so he decides to go without, city regulations be damned. Not that Lucky is interested in going anywhere, leash or no leash. The dog knows very well that Clint isn’t getting up before noon, so he, too, is still snoring away on the couch, feet up and head tucked in an awkward angle between the hand rest and cushions. When Phil calls him, his ears perk a bit and his tail wags a few times, but otherwise he doesn’t make a move to join in. Phil has to nudge the dog couple of times before he grudgingly gets up and follows.

 

 

*********

 

The clouds have disappeared and the sun is shining brightly through the windows when Phil comes back. Lucky wolfs down the bowl of kibble that Phil gives him and then flops onto the kitchen floor in hopes of getting occasional belly rubs and maybe catching some treats that fall.  
  


Phil has a bowl of cereal and glass of juice while making pancakes for Clint. He and Lucky share the first couple, which, by some weird natural law always end up either a bit raw or slightly burned, and he piles the rest onto the plate. He makes a few bunny-shaped too, because it’s fun and the way Clint always gets excited about such small things is endearing.  
 

There’s no answer, when he calls Clint to come and eat. Clint is probably still sleeping, and doesn’t have his ears on. He must be really tired, if the smell of pancakes hasn’t brought him downstairs. Nevermind, he can take Clint’s breakfast to the bed when he goes to take a shower.  
 

He digs the tray out of the cupboard and loads it up with the pancakes, a glass of juice, a bottle of maple syrup, and Clint’s ridiculously big, purple cup filled to the brim with coffee as well as a more moderate cupful for himself.  
 

Clint is laying on his stomach, in almost same exact position Phil left him. He has apparently moved only to grab Phil’s pillow and covered his face with it against the morning light.  
 

Phil carefully moves few books aside to put the tray on the nightstand. He then sits down and cards his hand through Clint’s messy hair, leaning closer to be heard and maybe to give Clint a good morning kiss. “Wake up ---,” he starts when Clint suddenly bounces up, grabs him and rolls them so that Phil is trapped under him. Clint surges down to capture Phil’s mouth, open and slack with surprise, in a wet, dirty kiss.  
 

Phil catches up quite quickly, and answers the kiss. He gets his hands free and grabs first Clint’s ass, giving almost too hard retaliating squeeze, before he moves upwards. He can feel the hearing aids as he tangles his fingers to Clint’s hair and caresses behind his ear. That and way too minty fresh morning breath reveal that the sneaky bastard had planned this ambush.  
 

“You little shit,” Phil breathes out, as he manages to come out for air. His smile is so wide it feels like his face will split. Clint is heavy and warm and perfect on top of him. He wants to stay like this forever, but then Clint moves, making their half hard cocks brush together and suddenly it’s imperative to do something about that. He lifts his hips up to grind against Clint, eliciting a satisfying groan from the man above him.  
 

“Nice move, babe. I see that...” Clint pants, pressing down and making Phil whimper and shudder “... and raise.” He ducks to suck the sensitive skin just under Phil’s jaw, slotting their legs for better leverage to rub their lengths together.  
 

For a moment it’s just harsh pants and moaning as they move against each other. Pulling his t-shirt off, Phil’s eyes catch the tray on the table:  
 

“Hey, coffee is getting cold.”  
 

Clint rolls his eyes, because _seriously_? He has just snaked his hand between them and is thumbing the head of Phil’s penis through his pants. And the man thinks of coffee? He does his very best not to take this as a criticism of his handy work.  
 

“Coffee can wait.” He breathes hotly into the hollow of Phil’s neck. Damn right coffee can wait. Clint only cares about the hot hardness in his hand, how his erection is pressing against Phil’s thigh, how heat is coiling inside him, how he needs to touch and to be touched now now now.  
 

“Oh, you do love me!” Phil says, smirk obvious in his voice.  
 

“You know what would make me love you even more? If you shut up and fuck me already.”

 

 

********

 

 

Afterwards, they lie against the headboard, still breathing a bit heavily. Phil’s muscles are aching again, but in a pleasant way. They both take a sip of their coffee. Phil makes a face, but Clint keeps on happily gulping. Perks of a big cup, it’s still lukewarm. Clint tries to offer Phil some, but he refuses, soldiering through his cupful of stale, bitter drink.  
 

Clint looks at Phil’s grimace.

“There is saying in Scandinavia that cold coffee makes you beautiful,” he says, nuzzling to Phil’s neck. “You’ve been drinking a lot of that, I can tell. You make even bruises look good.” Clint presses a gentle kiss on one of the marks left by yesterday’s mission. Candy cane gun. Don’t ask.  
 

Phil chuckles “There is such a saying?  If Thor is the example of norse standards, I’m willing to try that.” He turns to give Clint a kiss, which he eagerly answers. “But Thor has nothing on you. Maybe everyone should try Clint Barton beauty secrets.”  
 

“Yeah…  I could write a book about how living on junk food and and coffee, and getting beaten regularly by baddies gets you awesome biceps, youthful complexion and your own sexy G-man.” Clint says, reaching to take the pancakes. Phil cannot help admiring the play of the muscles on his back.  
 

Clint digs into food with enthusiasm. Finding the bunny shaped ones makes him laugh and lean into Phil. “You are so amazing, you know. You so totally deserve some special treats. You know what? I’m gonna bake for you! How about some brownies?” he says, drenching the pancakes with syrup and taking a bite. Somehow he manages to get syrup all over his face.  
 

Phil is filled with wonder of how much he loves this big dork, as he takes a napkin and offers it to Clint. “You don’t have to do that. I need to save some space. Today there will be plenty to eat at the Tower and tomorrow my dad will see that we’ll be stuffed with turkey until we explode, not mentioning that mom will never forgive us unless we eat at least two helpings of her special cake. And besides, you already bought me those delicious cookies. Thank you by the way. It was so nice of you.”  
 

“What cookies?” Clint looks at him questioningly, wiping his face before chipmunking more pancakes.  
 

“The ones in the fridge. In the box with the heart? Donut shaped, with purple frosting?”  
 

Clint falls silent. His brow furrows in concentration and he nearly stops chewing. Then something lights up in his expression. He swallows, almost choking and takes a big mouthful of coffee to help flush down the food.

“Oh yeah, _those_ cookies!” he exclaims.  
 

After another brief confused moment, the look of genuine surprise raises to his face: “You thought they were delicious? _Really?_ ” Then, obviously gathering himself, he continues: ”I mean, great! Glad you liked them! I’m _so happy_ you liked the cookies I bought for _you_!”  
 

Okay, something is wrong. Phil should be embarrassed on behalf of Clint at how bad he is at lying. Luckily he knows that this level of obviousness happens only when Clint has his defences down, otherwise he would be banned from undercover work.  
 

“Clint… what is it?”  
 

“Nothing.” Clint suddenly finds a freckle on Phil’s shoulder immensely interesting.  
 

“What were those cookies?” Phil is _this close_ to using his Agent Coulson voice.  
 

“Like you said, token of love for you, babe. Because you are so brave and hardworking and smart and sexy and…” Clint is still avoiding looking at Phil, eyes focused now on the napkin he is wringing in his hands. God, he _sucks_ at bullshit.  
 

“Clint. Cut the crap.”  
 

Clint bites his lip and winces. “Fine. They were not for you. They were for Lucky,” he says, shrugging apologetically.  
  


Phil blinks. “Dog cookies? I ate dog cookies?” he pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No wonder they were a bit low in sugar.”  
 

Phil isn’t actually upset, but thrown off enough to demand an explanation. “It didn’t occur to you to mark them better? What did you think I would assume seeing a box with heart on top?” he huffs out.  
 

Clint considers this. “Well… now that you mention… But to be honest, I don’t think it’s that big a deal. It’s not like it’s first time you’ve been eating dog treats.”  
  


“WHAT!?”  
 

“Ummm… Well, couple of times you’ve taken his treats and eaten them as snacks. Remember those corn puffs you liked because they weren’t too salty? And that carob bar? And those pieces of jerky..  Oh yeah… and that green bottle of shampoo? That was actually flea shampoo for Lucky.”  
 

“All this and you haven’t mentioned it to me?”  
  


“Phil please, there was product description, but you couldn’t read it because you refuse to wear your glasses for what fuckever stupid reason.”Clint is now leaning very close, his breath warm on Phil’s skin as he drawls into his ear “Which is a fucking shame, because you know I think you look sexy in those glasses.” He takes some distance to be able to look Phil into eyes, sincere apology in his voice “I didn’t want you to feel silly. I thought there was no harm done - it’s not like dog treats are poisonous. Actually they are pretty healthy. They are often more balanced than most human food. I sometimes eat them knowingly! And you liked how that shampoo made your hair shiny.” He turns his best puppy dog eyes to Phil.  
 

Phil smiles. How could he resist that face? And it really isn’t that serious. He pecks a kiss on Clint’s nose and chuckles, “I can’t believe I’m planning to propose a person who lets me eat dog food!”  
 

Clint laughs, relieved, then takes a look at Phil’s face and gasps.  
 

“Wait, what? Are you serious!?”  
 

Oh _damn_. It was supposed to be a secret. Phil had planned to propose after Christmas dinner, on top of the Avengers Tower, where they first kissed. (So he is a sap? So sue him.) Beans spilled, he sighs and admits: “Yeah... I finally managed to get the rings this morning. I was going to do it earlier, but ---”  
 

In trusted company Phil seems to be equally bad at assessing situation as Clint is at lying, because he gets again taken by surprise as Clint throws his plate to the floor, tackles him and then proceeds to kiss him silly.  
  
When they finally detach in order to avoid passing out from oxygen deprivation and Phil has got few lungfuls of air, he pants out “I take it you are considering, then?”

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of this story may or may not have been inspired by these dog cookies found in friend's pet store  
> 


End file.
